And So It Goes
by AEROrevolution
Summary: "The curtains reminded him of the long forgotten coffee cup in Paris, a single cream and four sugars." When two souls collide it can be the most wonderful and most dangerous thing in the world. And so it goes, and you're the only one who knows... TIVA
1. In Every Heart

**Title :** ...And So It Goes  
><strong>Song :<strong> "And So It Goes" -by- Billy Joel  
><strong>Pairing :<strong> Ziva David x Anthony DiNozzo  
><strong>Disclaimer :<strong> I do not own NCIS or any of its characters.

**- - - - - [ NCIS ] - - - - -**

"_In every heart there is a room, a sanctuary safe and strong."_

The curtains reminded him of the long forgotten coffee cup in Paris, a single cream and four sugars.

It was the sugar in the first place that had driven him outside onto the patio of the small cafe, breathing in the scent of the surrounding azalea bushes as he claimed a table of his own. Unfamiliar languages swirled around him more like melody than conversation, the lens of the camera becoming his only sight as he took in everything through a 50mm attachment. Architecture had become the highlight of his focus, sharp and crisp in its execution and design, so different from the mottled gray forms of Washington. Here there were curves, twists, and personality. Mottled browns and fiery reds that blended easily back into soft yellows and aged wood.

It was a single voice that caught him off guard, pulling his gaze away from the sky and back to reality as he twisted everything back into frame. The blaring car horns, the constant foreign chattering, the occasional barking of a dog off in the distance. Yet her voice was unmistakeable. She stood with her back to him, hair curled and wild down her back. He had suggested it back at the hotel, in passing more then anything, and yet there she stood in obvious agreement. French rolled off her tongue, an easy transition as she gestured towards the old man in the appropriate direction. She spoke with her hands, no matter the language she was using, and it made him question if there wasn't French somewhere in her family history. A constant query that he never voiced and probably never would.

She turned, and in that moment everything came together. The camera clicked as the sun filtered down from behind the decaying brick building in the background, a playful glint in her eye as she caught the sign of the cafe they had agreed to meet at. The smile playing on her lips was so cautionary and real, as if someone would turn to look at her and it would be gone in an instant. Yet he held it there, a single moment in time as it realized itself on film, a second and nothing more.

The curtains reminded him of a long forgotten coffee cup in Paris, and as he wrapped his hand around hers, he couldn't help but gaze fondly at the thin fabric. "It was gracious of you to share it with me." The words are whispered before he even realizes his lips are apart. She shifts beneath him, their eyes locking as her eyebrow raises in question, the slightest tilt of her head cementing the confusion that matches both of their features. It takes a moment for the dots to connect but when they do he nuzzles into her neck, savoring the scent of her shampoo and the warmth of their bodies held together only by a thin sheet sprawled across the bed. "Casablanca, 1942. Ilsa thanks Senor Ferrari for coffee and he responds in kind." He props himself up on one elbow, free hand absentmindedly playing with her hair. It's long and curled and frames her face in a way that he'll never understand. "I was thinking about Paris." He admits.

The confusion doesn't leave her eyes, but her features settle despite the fact and he can almost hear the wheels spinning. She won't understand the connection between black and white classics to a routine mission that had ended rather strangely, to the bedroom they've now decided to cocoon themselves in. He'll never tell her, either, and as he rests his forehead against hers, they both smile at the oddity of the situation.

She can feel it on a nearly subconscious level, stealing a kiss while still being able to hold him close to her. There is no intention to move, but she knows better then to take something for granted, so she basks in their moments. "The chair." He almost takes it as an order, but when her eyes mist over in memory, he relaxes with a glance towards the object in question. In a room of earthy colors and soft fabrics, the single red chair was a rather odd addition to an otherwise aesthetically pleasing area. It is small and thick, only ever used when she is reading a book or he happens to pick up a newspaper in the early morning hours. "You wore a red tie that night." She whispers in his ear and it finally clicks into place. _Paris._

It was a spare safe house and nothing more, rented under the disguise of a Spanish woman looking to secretary at a local law firm. There are photo ids, official documents that are all stamped and accounted for, all neatly in place and ready to grab in case of emergency. He knows this because she knows this, and more importantly she set the entire thing up long before any intention of using the building came into view. Paris had transformed the safe house into a sanctuary, somewhere they could come to be themselves without fear of repercussion. It had no ties to Mossad, no ties to NCIS, and no ties to either of them save the single key they kept in their pockets.

"I love you, Ziva."

"I love you, my little hairy butt."


	2. To Heal the Wounds

**Title :** ...And So It Goes  
><strong>Song :<strong> "And So It Goes" -by- Billy Joel  
><strong>Pairing :<strong> Ziva David x Anthony DiNozzo  
><strong>Disclaimer :<strong> I do not own NCIS or any of its characters.

- - - - - **[ NCIS ]** - - - - -

"_To heal the wounds from lovers past, until a new one comes along."_

"I've never understood it." He starts out slowly, not knowing if its the fifth beer or the sixth that's loosened his tongue. The words feel foreign on his lips, sharp and precise when everything else seems so completely out of focus, lost in the background leaving only their booth in clear view. The empty beer bottles were something he would see as a victory when he was in college, but now that he's aged and managed to make something out his life? They seem more like a mockery as they stare back at him. "I've never understood how you can work for the man that killed your brother." They never talk about it, uncharted territory in an already unstable sea. Too much to lose and not enough to gain, but the constant nagging at the back of his thoughts keeps all rationale from settling as he trudges forward into muddy water.

She picks at the label of the beer bottle, slowly unraveling it from the glass, a habit learned from observance and little else. "Half brother." The correction is automatic, years of misinformation on the matter ingrained in her very person. On the playground when he was transferred to her school, when he would show up for her dance recitals in Haifa, whenever one of his overzealous friends would come to the house late at night.

"Same difference." He mutters more to himself than to her, and as he takes another sip of his beer he manages to rephrase the question. "Gibbs shot Ari between the eyes. How can you deal with that?" It's an honest question. Years of being a detective has taught him to pick up on the subtle, the obvious, and the hidden. But in all of their time together he's never sensed any rivalry, any tension, any stress concerning the matter. The two of them, Ninja and Marine, work effortlessly together and trusting in such a way that he'd never thought imaginable before witnessing it himself.

Setting the bottle down on the table, she faces him, holding his gaze as she lets out a heavy sigh. "How can you be partners with the sister of the man who shot Caitlin?" An equally honest question, yet the deflection is obvious and he doesn't rise to the bait.

"Half-sister."

"Same difference." She mirrors with ease, opening the newest bottle of beer with her bare hands. She makes it look effortless, pinching the cap with her fingers and popping it off with minimal satisfaction. He uses the bottle opener on the table with little complaint.

They choose to stare at one another across the table, freshly opened bottles all but forgotten as they silently battle for dominance. He just wants to understand, to unravel the mystery and maybe find some closure in an all together unfortunate situation that should never have happened in the first place. She just wants to protect him from everything he doesn't want to hear, knowing full well the alcohol is his major motivation and his greatest enemy despite the warmth in his chest and the tickle in his throat. They look away at the same time.

"Caitlin is a beautiful name." She muses aloud, enjoying the sound in the air. In the office it's nearly forbidden, she only ever reads about it in old files and past cases. On the rare occasion Ducky mentions her in passing, and he says her name with such love that it stops her in her tracks. She can only imagine the connections that were severed far too early. Such pointless suffering.

"She hated it." He laughs, raw and low, a glint in his eye. "Ducky was the only one allowed to call her that, and even then it still kinda irked her, ya know? She liked the name Kate better, with a 'K' not a 'C'." He looses himself to past conversations and interactions, leaning back into the booth with his hands tucked behind his head. She watches him with interest, glad that for once the anniversary of her death has ended with a smile rather than a broken hand.

He looks at her, catching her smile, and its soothing rather than mocking. For once tonight, something isn't mocking him and it gives him hope. Hope enough to venture out on rocky ground a second time in one night. "What does Ari mean? The name." He clarifies softly.

"It means, lion. It's ironic really." Her laughter is bittersweet, at best. "In an old Hebrew tale, it is a spear that kills the lion and nothing else."

Later, far later in their interactions when Eli David finally comes to America and is given protection detail? Only then, does Tony remember their night in the bar and how she worded her answer. And as Eli smiles and calls her the Spear of Israel, he sits in his chair in silence long after everyone leaves the building.


End file.
